


Gray Area

by wordsliketeeth



Series: Rumors [3]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Blackmail, Blood Sharing, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Choking, Confrontations, Creampie, Cutting, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Internal Conflict, Kirisaki Daiichi High (Freeform), Knifeplay, Manipulative Relationship, Mind Games, Physical Abuse, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Revenge, Riding, Rough Sex, Strong Female Characters, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships, malicious intent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "The cutting remark is shallow but it serves its purpose because Hanamiya's eyes narrow at the offhand mention of Imayoshi's name. You think you can see dark clouds building behind the ebony lines of his lashes but you're quick to conquer the storm." You've finally had enough of Hanamiya's games and you're ready to take back what belongs to you: yourself.
Relationships: Hanamiya Makoto/Reader
Series: Rumors [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1392253
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	Gray Area

Sunlight streaks across your eyes but it's not the bright or the heat that stirs you from your restless slumber. It's the sweat glistening on your skin, the hammering of your heart, and the slick pooling in the center of your cotton-blend panties. A long groan escapes past your dry lips indicative of your irritation as you force yourself out of suspension and into awareness. You roll over in bed and squint in an attempt to shut out the resplendent light streaming through your window. You tug at your curtain to transitorily eliminate the sun from your view and it's a miracle that you don't pull the entire rod right down from the wall.

It's become clear to you that each day is bound to come with a new set of problems, and today just so happens to be wrapped in a gilded package of boundless irascibility and impatience. You get carried away on a ship of introspection and no sooner than the turbulent waters of your rumination begin to break your reverie, your alarm pierces the melancholy roar of the sea.

You knock your phone to the floor in an attempt to silence its repetitious canticle, which only causes your sour mood to snowball into a blustering storm. You roll yourself out of bed dramatically and nearly topple over with the unnecessary force used to retrieve your phone from the floor. You turn off the alarm and throw the device onto your bed as if it can conceptualize your anger. You run a hand through your hair and exhale a long-winded sigh, silently wishing for the strength to tame the wealth of emotions gnawing away at your insides.

You catch your reflection in the mirror hanging on your wall and take note of your haggard appearance. You knit your brows together and pull your mouth into a tight, thin line that illustrates your disapproval. You remind yourself that no one should be given the power to strip down your sanity or exploit your beliefs—and that you're the only one capable of handing out the permission to do so. You come to the harsh reality that you're doing just that and find yourself at a crossroads between resignation and resistance.

The gravity of the situation has started to wear you out, and you have to fight the urge to thrust your fist through your reflection before you make for the shower in hopes that you can wash away some of your grief.

After your skin burns red and the steam filling up the bathroom evaporates, you step into the middle of the room feeling a little lighter than you did before. You clear away the stubborn remains of condensation from the vanity mirror, wincing at the high-pitched sound of skin against damp glass. You stare at yourself for a long moment's observation. You still look like you're losing sleep but you're starting to see the parts of yourself you couldn't see before—which is more than you could have said two days ago. In fact, two days ago you could barely stand to acknowledge mirrors at all for what they stood for by the drab light of retrospection.

You smile when the pain comes, and as you line your eyes with the dark of night, you begin to draw up ideas from the pages of Hanamiya's book. You once heard that the scientific mind and the religious spirit are complementary, but neither science nor religious practice is going to guide you in the direction you're seeking. This journey has to come from your heart and the fire that's burning deep within your soul. This calls for you to go off the beaten path, to follow the avenue that takes you lower; between old cobbled streets and seedy motels, you will seek revenge and taste the sweet nectar of vengeance.

But first, you have to decide on a plan of action and that's proving far easier said than done. Television and history encourage petty schemes and foolish ploys, outlandish acts that are beyond even the highest points of your animosity. You're offended and upset and downright pissed off but you're not stupid. Whatever strategy you decide on needs to be smart and premeditated, free of distraction and able to certify accomplishment.

Imayoshi once told you that Hanamiya has a penchant for the sacrilegious and the desecration of holy names. He had laughed when he said that blasphemy runs through the rich dark blood in Hanamiya's veins—the blood he spilled willingly per Imayoshi's request on more than one occasion. You could easily be considered guilty of believing the very evil that Hanamiya spread about you—_because in the end hearsay can be just as lethal as the holy mess of calamity—_but Imayoshi doesn't bother himself with distortion unless it benefits him. There was nothing for him to gain by shedding some light on his unscrupulous and venal peer—_or is it rival? _You can't be sure anymore. Their relationship is something you don't ever want to truly understand. However, this insight makes you want to lock Hanamiya up inside a church just to watch it burn.

You shove the thought to the back of your mind and try to focus on a plan that won't end with you locked behind bars for the rest of your life. Though, getting rid of Hanamiya for good sounds like the most ideal of outcomes. Be that as it may, it's impractical, to say the least, and you're not moved by the drub and the defeat anyhow. Some people may like to hold hands with the devil but you'd much rather keep your soul to yourself, thank you very much.

It takes you far longer than usual to ready yourself for school. Notwithstanding the many thoughts to blame for your distraction, you've readjusted the length of your skirt more times than you care to count and changed your hairstyle just as many.

“I want to look confident, not like a prostitute,” you mutter aloud to the mirror as if it has anything to say about your indecision.

For a fleeting moment, you consider using seduction as a tool to drive a wedge between Hanamiya and his ilk. That thought, however, is quickly nullified by the remaining fragments of self-respect you've kept safely tucked behind the rigidity of your ribcage. The last thing you want is to help cement the bricks that Hanamiya's laid out for your classmates to build on. You might as well dig yourself a grave for all the good that would do.

When you finally step outside and start in the direction of school, you think you've decided on the most reasonable and resourceful of tactics. All you can do is hope that it works and that it's not as tired and trite as the people bound by their red tape. Still and all, you can't help but play the proverb _birds of a feather flock together_ on repeat with each step you take.

You arrive at the school gates sooner than you expect to and glare up at the large building as if it's capable of staring back at you. Your subconscious calls attention to the fact that you've spent a good part of the morning personifying inanimate objects and reminds you that you have much bigger fish to fry.

It's irony at its finest really because it polishes your mind's eye and explicates that there's more to the monotonous saying shaking your thoughts: _until the cat comes_. Your mouth breaks into a small smile as you ready your metaphorical claws for the imminent attack. And with one foot in front of the other, you think: _it's time._

* * *

Four days after you set fire to the powder-train two things are for certain: Hanamiya's closest companions are loyal to a fault, and he's finally beginning to see that his plans to break you have gone up in smoke.

Initially, you planned to force solitude upon him and sequester him from the rest of the world. However, putting him at odds with his friends was as plausible as hewing through bone without a saw. It struck you by surprise because if past events are anything to go by, lunchbox friends are genuine in existence, and Hanamiya of all people didn't seem like the type to secure lasting friendships. Per contra to what you believed, not one member of his immediate circle was interested in forfeiting their allegiance to him. Not even Seto, who had previously taken the time to warn you about Hanamiya's ill intent.

Be that as it may, it's only a small hindrance in the grand scheme of things. Especially seeing as how Hanamiya is taken aback by your immediate recovery. It imbues you with a sense of pride, and when you catch him staring at you from across the room, the smile you flash him is as authentic as the animosity he put in you.

Furthermore, you are confident that he will be the catalyst to his own downfall because he allowed you to get inside of his head in the same way he got inside yours. He just hasn't realized it yet.

* * *

You're responding to a day-late message from Imayoshi when you feel hot breath against the back of your neck. You will yourself to remain relaxed despite the prickling sensation that dances across your skin and take a measured breath.

“What do you want, Makoto?” you ask him, voice as smooth as the textbook beneath your fingers.

“I don't ever recall telling you that it was okay to use my given name,” is his response, cold and grating like ice has formed on his lungs.

“Well, to be fair, I don't recall telling you that it was okay to fuck me in the bathroom but you did it anyway.” You grab your belongings and turn around to face him directly. “So, now that we have that out of the way, why are you breathing down the back of my neck? Are you that desperate to read my messages or are you just going back to stalking me every day? Either way, you have to know by now that I'm not going to hand over whatever it is that you want.” You pretend to reconsider your statement and reach back into your locker for your cell phone. “Unless you want to read through my texts with Imayoshi-san, but I promise you, he hasn't mentioned you at all.”

The cutting remark is shallow but it serves its purpose because Hanamiya's eyes narrow at the offhand mention of Imayoshi's name. You think you can see dark clouds building behind the ebony lines of his lashes but you're quick to conquer the storm. You toss your phone back into your bag and shut the metal door to your locker with an audible clang.

“I hope we can move past all of this, Makoto. I don't want this bad blood between us to turn into something more.” You lift a hand to a fading bruise on the smooth column of your throat and tease your fingers over the skin. “You got what you wanted, didn't you?” Your voice lilts, hinting at playful innocence disguising latent seduction. “I'll see you around.” You smooth moisture into your lips in a way that looks innocuous to those passing you by, but you know that Hanamiya understands the mocking gesture for what it is.

You step into the throng of students moving lazily down the hall and exhale a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it's vibrating your chest cavity, but for good reason.

Hanamiya's face is still sharp behind your eyes by the time you reach your next class. You can still perfectly visualize the flecks of green in his eyes and the small scar that sits just below the sharp line of his jaw. Yet, these detailed intricacies stray from your main focus, which is the expression that remained on his face as you turned and walked away from him.

By the time the class finally ends, you're struggling to keep your head upright. Some days are indeed better than others, but today's lesson had all the stodgy dullness of a business infomercial. You hear the idle shuffle of books and the clink of writing utensils as several desks shift from their intended locations from the weight of movement. You glance around the room and note that you're not alone. More than half of your classmates are slumberous with tired eyes and yawns taking over the shapes of their mouths.

You join in the faction of zombie-like students and mosey out of the classroom like the sand in your hourglass has run out. Moving helps but it's going to take more than a brief jaunt to your locker to shake the fatigue from your limbs. You return a friend's wave with a halfhearted flap of your hand, then breathe a sigh of relief when you see that the line of lockers housing your own is sans Hanamiya.

Your luck doesn't last long, however, because Hanamiya catches you in a little-used twisting stairwell. You think to call out to the two girls slipping through the door at the top of the stairs but it closes before you have a chance. The last thing you want is to deal with Hanamiya in an enclosed space all alone.

You can feel his gaze penetrating your body and when you turn your attention toward him, you force yourself to meet his eyes. He's standing in the corner with one shoulder against the wall and his ankles crossed. He looks more arrogant than he does passive, which is saying something considering the fact that Hanamiya rarely exhibits interest in anything. Nonetheless, something about his stance makes you want to punch him square in the jaw.

“Why did you think that you could come between me and my friends?” Hanamiya blurts, pretending to clean dirt out from beneath his fingernails. “Are you really that stupid?” He lifts his head and you watch the inky spill of his hair slide across the contour of his cheek. “I don't know if I'm more offended or surprised that you thought something like that would work.” He arches an eyebrow and pushes himself away from the wall. “I think you've been watching too many teen dramas. I mean, your invective is almost panegyric and the satire is pathetic. It's like you're reading from a script. You walk around here as though you come from some kind of royalty. Do you honestly think that you're that important?”

“If you want to form preconceived notions about me, that's fine, but do it on your own time. I'm not half as interested in hearing you speak as you obviously are. As for your friends, I was merely curious as to where they stood in all of this. Since you're so keen on picking apart my reputation, I thought it would be helpful to know who my real enemies in all of this are.”

“And did you get your answer, princess?” Hanamiya drawls. He tilts his head slightly and drags his gaze up the length of your body.

“I did. It seems that assholes _are_ capable of forming tight bonds. It's truly astonishing really, I didn't think people like you could devote yourself to anything but self-regard. Congratulations.” You reach out and pat Hanamiya on the shoulder with all the condescension you can call up. “I'm really happy for you.”

To your surprise, Hanamiya smiles in a way that appears genuine. It looks strange on his face and the only other time you've seen him wear a similar expression was when he watched Kiyoshi crumble on the basketball court. Something coils tight in the low of your belly that arouses heat and nausea. Hanamiya curls his cold fingers tight around your wrist—calling attention to the fact that you've already forgotten that you were touching his shoulder—and yanks you forward and off-balance.

“I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work,” he says, his mouth moving against the soft of your cheek. “There's nothing you can do to me that will help you win this fight. You wanting me is enough on its own to mark me the victor.”

“I want you as much as I want dog shit on my shoe,” you huff and tug your wrist out of Hanamiya's hand violently.

“I think you're lying. I think you want me so badly that it hurts,” Hanamiya tells you, fire burning behind his long eyelashes.

“I'm sure you do—you seem to think a lot of things. Maybe that's the price you have to pay for being a genius. It must be hard to be so smart.” You smooth down the front of your shirt and take a step back from the dark-haired boy standing an arms-reach away from you. “Though, I don't recall Imayoshi-san ever having these issues. But then again, he is your senpai, after all. He's bound to be better than you at most things.” You lift your shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug and turn in the direction of the stairs climbing toward your destination.

You place one foot on the bottom step and feel the weight of Hanamiya's hand in your hair. He tugs you back hard enough that pain flares along the line of your scalp and through the back of your head. You lose your footing and Hanamiya takes advantage of your precarious balance to push you down to the floor. Your body aches in the places where it made contact with the grimy vinyl, but you don't have time to recover from the fall because Hanamiya's shoving his foot against your chest to push you down against the floor.

Hanamiya opens his mouth but you're quick to interject whatever it is he plans to say. “Small mistakes, Makoto.” He furrows his brow in a moment of confusion and you politely point up at a camera positioned between two walls in the corner of the ceiling.

“Like I give a shit,” Hanamiya starts, but the door at the top of the stairwell comes open to reveal the school's vice-principal.

He calls Hanamiya to his office immediately, evincing authority in the notorious tone that all administrators seem to have. He waits for him at the top of the stairs and asks if you're okay when Hanamiya finally removes the pressure from your chest. You nod and quickly push yourself into standing. You decide that now is a good time to demonstrate what a good student you are and profess your desperation to get to your next class as you're already late. You rush up the stairs and through the gap in the door, and with each step you take, you can feel Hanamiya's hatred radiating off of him in waves.

After the day's final hour, you're sent to one of the school's guidance counselors. The conversation is as awkward as any and mostly consists of questions regarding your safety when in Hanamiya's company. You spend most of the session wishing to be free of the small stuffy space because you have no intention of joining teams with the staff. This matter has gone even beyond the bounds of personal and you plan to keep it that way. However, this impromptu incident does offer its fair share of amusement to the contrary seriousness of the situation. It serves Hanamiya right for thinking himself invincible.

It takes a great deal of concentration to focus on the counselor's questions and consecutive evaluation. You can't help but stare at their bushy eyebrows, imagining the many long legs of a centipede falling over an out-dated pair of eyeglasses. Also, you can't ignore the stench of today's lunch on their breath or overlook the piece of greenery stuck between their two front teeth. Then, at long last, the final bell sounds and you're given permission to _go back out and into the wild_. It's a lame attempt at a joke, followed by gruff laughter that breaks into a hacking fit.

You practically bolt from the office and relish the unhampered oxygen, unfazed by the amalgamation of lemon and pine and bleach that burns through your nostrils. You can see half of the student body through the tall glass windows facing outside, already well on the way toward their respective homes. It's a wonder, how quickly the building clears out once the day is done.

You turn down the long stretch of hallway and nearly crash right into Seto. You issue an immediate apology and walk around him but before you make it two feet you hear him say: “You've really done yourself in now.” You consider turning back around but see no point, so you continue down your original trajectory with a thousand thoughts clouding your mind.

* * *

The following day goes by in a flash. You had been informed that Hanamiya wouldn't be in attendance for three days, and knowing that you have two more days without his parasitic presence feels like you've won a vacation. You had taken comfort in this fact, but your peace of mind is quick to dissolve when you arrive home to find him sitting just outside your front door.

“There is no explanation you could offer me that would give you a reason to be here,” you tell him firmly. “Go home.”

“Well, that's far from the warm welcome I was expecting,” Hanamiya mutters, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “I'm disappointed.”

“It seems like I disappoint you a lot. Yet, you keep coming back. What's that say about you?” You walk past him and pretend at indifference when in truth, your heart feels like a hand grenade waiting to explode. You fumble to unstick your house key from the sweat clinging to the palm of your hand when something sharp presses against your lower abdomen. Your brow wrinkles in a gesture of curiosity and when you lower your gaze, you see that in the extension of Hanamiya's hand is the silver blade of a knife.

“Do anything stupid and I'll gut you like a fish,” he threatens, his voice low and resonant. “Now open that door and let me inside.”

“Are you fucking insane?” you blurt, turning your head to look at him directly. “I'm not letting you into my house!”

“Do you really want to finish this out here?” Hanamiya asks, dragging his gaze away from your face to glance pointedly at a group of bystanders.

“It's better than letting you into my house where I'm entirely alone.” Your voice is high-pitched and too full of breath, the result of trying to keep your composure.

“That's what I wanted to know,” Hanamiya smirks and folds the blade before tucking it into his back pocket.

You stare at him like he's a foreign species out of a sci-fi movie and it takes Hanamiya plucking your key from your hand to rouse you into full awareness. He quickly slides the key into the door's locking mechanism and steps into your home before you can call him back.

You take a deep breath and retrieve your cell phone in case you should need assistance. Then you step inside and cautiously close the door behind you, leaving it unlocked for good measure. You drop your belongings by the entrance and eye Hanamiya as he takes in his surroundings.

“Look, if you're here about what happened the other day, I didn't plan that. It's your fault for not knowing about the cameras. I have better things to do with my time than try to get you suspended.” You dampen your lips before taking the bottom line of your mouth between the cool edges of your teeth.

Hanamiya turns around and you watch his mouth twist on a dangerous smile. “I took a voluntary leave of absence. It was that or suffer through hours of detention, and I'm not really the type to stay in one place for too long.” He stares at you like he can read every thought building in your mind and laughs. “You didn't think you had that much pull, did you? I'm a star student.” Hanamiya lifts a hand to the space over his heart. “I'm one of the school's highest achieving students and a luminary athlete.” He exhales a breath of feigned shock and shakes his head in equally fabricated disbelief. “You're _nothing_ compared to me, stupid.”

You don't have time to parse whether it's the put-on display of condescending theatrics or the juvenile name-calling, but something drives you in his direction like you're moving on autopilot. You don't make time for judgment or future reflection, you simply walk right up to where he's standing and backhand him with all the force you can muster. It's enough that Hanamiya's head snaps to the side and a tiny rivulet of blood slips down the corner of his mouth. Your hand throbs from the harsh contact but the smile that returns to Hanamiya's lips is what demands your attention.

“You arrogant bastard!” you shout, the anger in your veins rising to a roiling boil and spilling out into your blood. “I am so sick of you treating me like I'm beneath you.” You reach out and take his shoulders into your hands and shove him up against the nearest wall. His head makes contact with the unyielding surface, a dull thud that underscores the rush of breath that leaves his lungs. “I _know_ that you want me. I _know_ that you're fixated on breaking me because you can't fucking understand why you like me. But you know what? That's not _my_ problem. You're the one who has problems. _You're_ the who deserves to be broken.”

“Are you done?” Hanamiya asks flatly, letting all of the emotion drain from his face as if he's bleeding it out.

You press your nails into your palms and emit a scream of sheer frustration before fisting the front of Hanamiya's shirt. “I hate you so fucking much,” you seethe, hands shaking violently. A storm crashes through your protoplasm and wages a war on your mental acuity—at least, that's what you need to believe to make sense of your impulsive response.

You press your mouth against Hanamiya's with so much force it's a miracle you don't bite clean through your lip. You do, however, latch onto the lower line of Hanamiya's mouth and set your teeth in against the damp flesh. You apply just enough to pressure to break the skin and Hanamiya groans a sound of pleasure in response to the assumed pain. You close what little space is left between you and lift your leg to press your knee in against the inside of his thigh. You can feel the weight of his cock through the denim clinging to his hips, and when he exhales an involuntary sigh of surprise, you drag the flat of your tongue over the blood settling in along the corner of his mouth.

“You disgust me,” you whisper, lips moving against the soft of Hanamiya's own. “And I should have known you were a closet masochist.”

The low reverberation of a chuckle purrs up the back of Hanamiya's throat and vibrates against his chest. “You're truly precious,” he says behind a wolfish grin. “Precious, but oh-so-dumb.”

Before you're able to track the motion, Hanamiya hooks a leg around the backs of your calves and draws your feet out from beneath you. He sends you crashing to the floor, and the best you can do to lessen the force of impact is catch your weight on the palms of your hands. Your wrist bends in a way it's not used to and you emit a shrill yelp of pained surprise. You clutch your hand to your chest but Hanamiya's closing in, dropping down to his knees to pin you to the floor. He straddles your lap and shoves your shoulders down against the hard resistance beneath you. You flail about in an attempt to throw off his weight but you're suffering the disadvantage of gravity.

“I don't know why you're putting up such a fight,” Hanamiya drawls. He retrieves the same knife he threatened you with earlier and twirls it between his fingers. “You make all these flippant statements about me when you have no evidence to base them on—but I _can_ substantiate my claims.” Hanamiya flips open the knife and its polished blade catches in the light spilling down the walls and out across the floor. “I know that you've allowed me to monopolize almost everything that's important to you. I know that the hatred you feel for me isn't enough to keep you from wanting me. And if I really disgust you that much, what's that say about _you_?”

“Why don't you stop playing these games and get to the point?” Your voice is acerbic and sharp but nothing could justly exhibit the emotions clawing through you like a convocation of eagles. A fire had started in your heart a while ago and it's been growing ever since you spotted Hanamiya in front of your home.

Hanamiya stares down at you for a brief moment, silence stretching between you like a wrong turn. “Do you know why cancer is so hard to cure?” The question outstrips your focus, and if it were a trap he would have been able to waylay you into a snare with ease. You draw in a breath but Hanamiya is quick to continue without an answer. “The cells in our bodies lose the ability to control their growth so the body has a hard time distinguishing the cancerous cells from the normal cells.” He lowers his hand and presses the tip of his knife against the center of your lips. “To create a drug that will destroy the cancer without damaging the rest of the cells in the body is nearly impossible.”

You part your lips and the blade shifts, making a shallow cut along the center of your delicate flesh. You can taste the familiar tang of metallic but you're not sure which is responsible for it: blood or the bite of the knife. Regardless, you force your body to stillness in the interest of not hurting yourself further despite wanting to fight back.

“You learn quick,” Hanamiya sidelines before continuing his peculiar speech. “I am that cancer, and I'm already in your body. I've _had_ you and you're never going to be rid of me.” He tips forward slightly and takes your injured wrist into his hand with unexpected caution. “And all because you _let_ me in.”

Hanamiya shakes his head in mock disappointment and draws the knife away from your lips. You watch him with rapt attention as he turns over your hand to tease the weapon's tip against your palm. “But the thing is” –Hanamiya presses the blade closer to your skin– “I don't think you'd take it back even if you were given the opportunity.”

Even though you're prepared for it, the sting of the knife cutting into your palm makes you wince and inadvertently attempt to break free of Hanamiya's grip. Pain flares through your wrist and you cry out, a howl of anguish and fury that echoes against the backdrop of the room.

Hanamiya laughs and when you glare at him, he looks genuinely happy. “Come on, it's not that bad,” he needles. He brings your hand to his lips and licks the blood from your skin by way of prurient curiosity.

“Let me cut you up then,” you say, bristling like the hair of one in the center of a lightning storm.

“I might if I could trust that you wouldn't try to kill me.” Hanamiya lifts his shoulders in a perfunctory shrug. “Regardless, very few can give me the kind of pain that I'm able to get off on, and between you and me, I'd much rather be the one hurting you.”

“I don't doubt that,” you scoff. “If I've learned anything by studying you, it's that you have a habit of taking the easy way out.”

“Then you haven't been paying very good attention,” Hanamiya counters. “The only easy thing in all of this has been fucking you.”

You roll your eyes and clench your bloody hand into a fist. “Could you be any more predictable?”

“I suppose nothing's impossible,” is his reply, apathetic and emotionless. He slides his weight back and tugs at the hem of your shirt to pull the fabric taut. In one swift motion, he cuts through the material with ease and reveals your skin to the open air coming in through the cracked window across the hall. You exhale a shaky breath and Hanamiya tracks the motion with the cold steel in his hand. “You know, you wouldn't be half-bad to look at if you didn't have such a shitty personality.”

You're suddenly hit with a burst of renewed energy and despite the weapon pressed against your abdomen, you cant your hips hard enough to tip Hanamiya's balance askew. He catches his weight on the bend of his elbow, giving you just enough time to climb into his lap and twist the knife free of his grip in adrenaline-fueled succession. You waste no time pressing the blade to his throat but he's just as quick to press his bare hand against your own.

“What's it gonna be, baby? Are you gonna kill me?” Hanamiya tips his head back and you watch the chords in his throat shift beneath the silver weapon.

“I wouldn't give you the satisfaction,” you tell him, reaching out to press your fingers against the bend of the long digits against your throat. “You can feel free to choke me, though. I'll add it to the list of things you've done to me when I report you to the police. I need all the evidence I can get to _substantiate_ a charge.”

“Kinky,” Hanamiya intones. Then after a second's pause: “I should have forced you to give me a handjob with that blood-stained hand of yours when I had the chance.”

“You mean this one?” you ask, lifting your injured hand and wiggling your fingers in turn. You glance down at the still-bleeding wound, then without further preamble, you smear the viscous fluid across Hanamiya's cheek. “Consider that a gift. It's the best you're gonna get.”

“How thoughtful,” Hanamiya deadpans, tightening his fingers against the base of your throat. He wraps an arm around your waist and uses the center of gravity between you to pull himself into a sitting position. You keep the knife close to his throat and ignore the trickle of heat that spills down your spine when his straining arousal grazes the apex of your thighs. “What's your aim here...”

“Stop talking,” you interject. “I'm the one in control right now and you're going to listen to me.”

Hanamiya issues a bark of laughter but you manage to maintain your inscrutable expression. You keep a firm hand on your borrowed knife and undulate your hips to grind down against Hanamiya's erection.

“Undo your pants,” you command, voice steady despite the sudden increase of your heartbeat.

Hanamiya arches an eyebrow but keeps his mouth closed as he removes the hand at your waist and fits it in sideways between your bodies. You keep your attention pinned to his face as he undoes his button and zip, his knuckles glancing your inner thigh. You feel like you're burning a candle at both ends and it takes every grain of your self-control to keep from exposing your unbridled anticipation.

“Care to elaborate?” Hanamiya asks and flicks his tongue out over the small split in his lip.

“You need instructions?” you taunt. “I want you to take your fucking hand away from my throat and pull your dick out of your pants.”

“And why would I do that when you're holding a knife to _my_ throat?” Hanamiya tilts his head a fraction and it's just enough to nick the skin you're threatening.

You pretend not to care and shrug your shoulders but somewhere in the back of your mind, you're paying strict attention to the juxtaposition of the blade and the small score in the center of Hanamiya's throat. “I guess you're just going to have to learn to trust me.”

“I don't trust my own mother,” he blurts, but he's already sliding his hand away from your throat and pressing his palm down against the floor to alleviate the strain of his position. He reaches into his jeans and draws out his erection, notwithstanding his vacant countenance, he can't disguise the relief that plays over his features like breaking calm.

“Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not your mother,” you say with a lilt of raillery. “Put your other hand on the floor and don't move. If you do, this knife is going straight for your cock.” You wait for Hanamiya to heed your command, which he does with an air of halfhearted amusement, then you shrug out of your tattered top. You carefully take the blade away from his throat but tighten your grip on the handle on the chance that he should try to vie for it.

You watch him with all the attention of a lioness hunting her prey as you lower the knife to the slight jut of your hip. The action is enough to divert Hanamiya's attention from your face. His eyes flicker to where you're cutting through the stretch of elastic of hugging your hips and you think you can see interest spark in the dark of his gaze. You tug the shredded material away from your skin and toss it over your shoulder but Hanamiya doesn't miss a beat.

“I knew it. Either this power trip is going to your head or you can't wait to revisit the past, and I have a strong inkling that it's the latter.” He slides his hands further back on the floor and you have to press your legs closer to his hips to keep from losing your balance. “Are you always this wet when I'm around?”

“I don't know why you're bothering to heckle me about this. It benefits you just as much as it does me.” You point the tip of his knife at his stiff member and lift your hips away from his thighs. “Wrap your fingers around the base and hold it still. As soon as you're inside of me, put your hand back on the floor.”

“I can't even have a loving embrace? You're cold, ____.” Hanamiya does as he's told but securing his obedience is not your end-goal. You want to prove that he wants this just as much as you do.

You line your slick entrance up to Hanamiya's swollen glans and slowly lower yourself down onto his sex. When he's fully seated inside of you, his cock jerks and you can feel it. Your muscles constrict around him in response and you're rewarded with a quiet groan that stirs the heat in the low of your belly. You bite back the urge to whimper and take a moment for the burn of friction to dissipate.

Hanamiya rolls his head back and the exposed line of his throat calls to you. You duck your head and drag the flat of your tongue along the wash of pink climbing his pale complexion and over the jut of his Adam's apple. You can taste a tinge of blood beneath the salt that sticks to his skin and feel the heat radiating from his flesh.

You drape your arms around his neck and begin to roll your hips. Your knees are digging into the floor uncomfortably but the pain is marginal compared to the rush of electric pleasure burning through every raw nerve-ending in your body. You can hear the slick catch of your arousal and the slide of skin-on-skin contact with each shift of your hips. It spreads heat across your cheeks and you know that you're blushing but it's a small price to pay considering the way absolute bliss is building in your veins.

With each rise and fall of your hips, you're driving your control further into the reaches of a head-on collision. You forget about the knife in your hand until Hanamiya sucks a hiss of breath between his teeth that indicates injury. Your mouth falls slack to issue a reflexive apology but you're quick to remember who you're offering amends to and press your lips together in a tight line.

Hanamiya scoffs and swiftly braces his hands against your hips, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. Your rhythm hitches and you shoot him a warning look that earns you a cold, hard stare.

“I'm not exactly in a position to fight right now so just leave your attitude at the door and keep riding me. If the way your cunt feels right now is anything to go by, you're not going to last much longer.” He bucks his hips forward and fucks into you sharply to punctuate his statement. You momentarily lose your balance and in reaching for it, you drag the edge of Hanamiya's knife over his shoulder. His skin separates and blood begins to spread out to the tattered edges of his shirt, the white fabric working like a sponge. You stare at the injury with a sense of fascination, hips moving on autopilot.

Hanamiya's nails are longer than what you're used to seeing on other boys, and when he scratches at your skin you suddenly understand why—everything about him is fashioned for the fight. The sting that follows spurs you on and you begin to ride him in earnest, sweat beading down your neck and thighs straining. You tear your gaze away from the laceration and fixate on Hanamiya's heat-glazed stare. His eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is open for breath he can't quite catch. For the first time since this whole contest between you started, you can confirm with all honesty that at this very moment, you have the upper hand.

“Move your hands,” you begin, breathless and shaky.

“I thought we were past that,” Hanamiya manages, his voice husky and low.

“To my throat,” you finish sharply. “I'm close and I want you to choke me. Make this count.”

Hanamiya shakes his head but his reflexes have been slowed by the concupiscent drug sliding through his bloodstream. “You really don't make any sense at all,” he tells you, lifting his hands to fit them around the base of your throat. His palms are warm but his fingertips are cold against the back of your neck. You shudder and Hanamiya squeezes, cutting off the oxygen to your lungs as you soar to the precipice of your long-awaited downfall.

When you come it's as though the channel serving as a spillway to control your emotions overflows and the surplus of feeling escapes in a flood of reaction. The knife slips from your hold and clatters against the floor somewhere behind Hanamiya. You bite your lip and whimper in the dark of your throat as your body holds him close in the most intimate way possible.

Your vision wavers and the room begins to spin, slipping into an ink-blot of darkness that wars with the light. You lift a shaky hand to the fall of Hanamiya's hair and tug at his strands in an unspoken request to loosen his grip. Your limbs are trembling and every ounce of energy left in your body is shattering—your clit throbs painfully with hypersensitivity and you can't be certain but you think you're coming again.

You rest your forehead against Hanamiya's bloody shoulder and inhale a deep breath when his hands fall away from your throat. His breath hitches and he rakes his nails down your exposed chest reflexively when he finally capitulates to his body's demands. You feel his cock twitch inside of you and his stomach quiver as he spills himself to completion along your inner walls. He whispers a string of expletives and clutches at the center of your bra for something to hold onto.

A moment passes with nothing more than the sounds of your breathing and the rapid beating of your hearts. Then Hanamiya mutters something that sounds like: “Death is such a flirt.”

You try to lift yourself from Hanamiya's lap but your legs are weak and sore from the angle of your position. Then suddenly, shade falls over your united bodies and a firm hand is helping you up and away from the floor.

“Thank you, Imayoshi-san,” you say, not needing to look at the shadow's owner to know who it is.

Hanamiya, who had just looked like he'd injected a sizable amount of heroin into his veins, immediately fixes his attention on the new arrival. His forehead is creased but his eyes are wide and there's a certain alertness in his gaze that wasn't there before.

“Hello,” is all Imayoshi says, smiling down at Hanamiya like the devil himself.

“I didn't know you were here,” Hanamiya grits as if the words are sand between his teeth.

“Imayoshi-san never comes in through the front door,” you tell him, running a hand through the fall of your hair in hopes to smooth it back into place.

“So, what? Did you two plan this? There's no way you could have known that I'd show up here.” Hanamiya lazily tucks himself back into his pants but it's obvious that he's in no hurry to do so.

“I had no idea but it seems that your favorite senpai did.” You smooth your hands down the front of your skirt in an attempt to hide the viscous mess sticking to your thighs. Then you look at Imayoshi and smile. “We might have talked a few things over a while back but nothing was ever set in stone.”

“Really?” Hanamiya drawls. “And what exactly did you finally decide on?” He looks at Imayoshi pointedly, and for a second, you feel a pang of jealousy.

“This,” Imayoshi says, holding up his phone. “I figured I'd tape your little show. If anything, it's proof that you don't hate her as much as you claim to.” Imayoshi's looks down at Hanamiya, his glasses turning opaque in the reaches of the sun. “You do have interesting chemistry. I can only imagine the mess you'd both make if you let yourselves go.”

Hanamiya ignores Imayoshi's concluding remark and pushes himself into standing. He turns to face you, his expression stony and unreadable. “You don't have the balls to bring something like that out into the open.” He jerks his head in the direction of where Imayoshi is standing. “'Sides, you'll come off just as fucked up as I am. The difference is: I know I'm a sadistic asshole, and I don't give a shit what people think about me. You on the other hand,” he trails off, letting you pick up the remaining pieces of his point.

“I don't have any plans of lowering myself to your level but just know this: if you try to take me down, I'm dragging you down with me,” you tell him smartly.

“I should have known you couldn't handle this by yourself,” Hanamiya says, and he almost sounds disappointed.

“I didn't _need_ Shō's help. I utilized my resources. Just like you did when you started all of this.” You reach out and sweep a section of hair out of his eyes. He looks like he wants to bat your hand away but he doesn't. “This is a lot to go through just to avoid admitting that you like someone.”

Hanamiya grinds his back molars together and you flinch at the sound. “Yeah, it is, and maybe I do like you, but you have no fucking idea what that really means.” He turns his attention to Imayoshi and narrows his eyes, and even though neither of them speaks, you know that something has passed between them. Finally, he looks back at you and says: “I'll see _you_ at school.”

He walks past the knife on the floor and disappears through the front door without issuing another sound. You stare at the blank surface for a moment before glancing at Imayoshi, who looks far too amused.

“What are you smiling about?” you ask, irritated in a way that only Imayoshi can make you feel.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, the dig of his mouth pulling wider. “I've just suddenly become very interested in where this is going to go.”

You furrow your brow, feeling miles away from the level of satisfaction you'd hoped for. You do, however, know that today has ended in your favor, and knowing that you've outfoxed Hanamiya is a feeling you can espouse.

For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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